household shall not notice me. Where shall I go?
The answer to this question has long been there in my brain: "To Katy."
III
As usual she is lying on the Turkish divan or the couch and reading something. Seeing me she lifts her head languidly, sits down, and gives me her hand.
"You are always lying down like that," I say after a reposeful silence. "It's unhealthy. You'd far better be doing something."
"Ah?"
"You'd far better be doing something, I say."
"What? . . . A woman can be either a simple worker or an actress."
"Well, then—if you can't become a worker, be an actress."
She is silent.
"You had better marry," I say, half-joking.
"There's no one to marry: and no use if I did."
"You can't go on living like this."
"Without a husband? As if that mattered. There are as many men as you like, if you only had the will."
"This isn't right, Katy."
"What isn't right?"
